New

 

I wish that I was new.

That my skin didn’t call out their name

As then, I hadn’t met them.

I once was naive:

Anger would be raw

Rather than doused in the petrol of jealousy,

Or envy,

Or paranoia,

Or disappointment.

Anger was fire:

Fast to flicker and burn out.

Now ember litters my skeleton,

Fanned alive again and again

By the breath of bitterness.

I once was fresh,

Eager to grow

Rather than yearning to be picked.

My skin soft, taught with expectation,

Now bruised from lessons

To watch where you fall

Or else grow hard.

I once was me.

I talked

Rather than question the words I say.

I walked

Without fearing what others would say.

My flesh was mine

And now I loathe it

Unless someone else desires it.

I wish that I was new,

Maybe then I wouldn’t feel as I do.

.

.

.

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Megan Hopkin
Illustration Nick Victor


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